


Remember

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Equilibrium
Genre: Anal Sex, Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Memories, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-15
Updated: 2010-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:44:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-movie, John remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember

This is not the first time Jurgen's fingers have traced the tattoos, and it will not be the last. The front of John's body--blank, open, left for the pain and pleasure of new experiences--is hidden for the moment, pressed against the mattress. It is his back that is exposed to Jurgen now, the many lines of text in a thin, sweeping cursive script. The ink is many-colored; he has had enough of black to last a lifetime, enough of sober and muted hues. Some things are the same. He still lives in the stark apartment with its white walls and its gleaming chrome fixtures, but tapestries now hang on those walls, his refrigerator decorated with his children's artwork. The glass of his window is now exposed to the sunrise, and when he and Jurgen fuck at night, people may see him. His children dress in bright colors, in patterns, and a stereo in the living room is nearly always playing music. They don't even live in Libria anymore; it is called Freetown, and the children go to school to learn the new curriculum of art and music and English literature while John works behind the scenes in the newly-established Ministry of Culture.

But some changes are slow in coming, and a society takes time to rebuild. The past is not gone; it is inked on his flesh, tattooed on his memory as his body is wracked with the guilt of paintings burned, blood spilt, trust broken. Jurgen can whisper forgiveness again and again and they both know it will never really matter. He has his children to live for, but some days the pain swallows him whole, and he shuts the door and listens to arias on an old gramophone and weeps. On those days he is alone, but Jurgen comes in at night and holds him fast and takes him rough and jarring until he coughs up every last emotion into the baby soft wine-colored sheets. Then he lies still, spent and exhausted, and Jurgen strokes his hair and tips water into his mouth and whispers forgiveness all over again. Whatever it takes, he has promised. Whatever it takes.

This is not one of those nights, but it is a still moment nonetheless, and John relishes the steadiness of his own breathing, the tickle of Jurgen's fingertips over his skin. There are lines for each of them. Jurgen's fingers always trace Viviana's first, two words only, at the small of his back where it was most painful. _Remember me._ Then there are Errol's, _But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams._. He might have loved Errol, had he felt then. He thinks Jurgen knows. Finally Mary's, in blood red, between his shoulderblades. _Without love, without anger, without sorrow, breath is just a clock, ticking._ Jurgen's fingers linger here, and John lets out a slow, painful breath, his mind full of white-hot flames. Jurgen's cock drives into his body and he forgets nothing.


End file.
